Dúlamán
by FFAMasquerade2005
Summary: Sing us a song Marion!" and if she didn't comply he'd start calling her by her childhood nick name that she loathed, knowing it would irk her. "Mary, will you not grace us with your songs? Please Mary!" She would cringe at that nickname and more often than not, smack that eejit of a boy upside his head.


Originally written in 2009

Overhaul/Rewrite posted June 2018

I re-wrote this story because I noticed that the original formatting was extremely messed up. I truly have no idea how people even read it, or maybe that was why there were no reviews...*shrugs* anyways here is the rewrite. I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own POTO, but I do own Marion so unless you have permission from me you can't use her.

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 **Dúlamán**

Marion peered out from behind the red velvet curtain on the Palais Garnier's empty stage and theater. It was well past eleven o'clock on this chilly winters night and Marion doubted if anyone but her self, The Fairies and the occasional Púca, were up at such an hour. Most likely the rest of the employees were in their warm and comfortable beds that the opera provided to their more important employees. Employees like her were still taken care of, least you think other wise, and Marion was very great full for the opportunity to work at the famous Palais Gariner. It had been a dream of hers, since she came here a few short years ago, to rise up through the ranks and become a Prima Donna.

Marion took a steady breath and walked hesitantly to the center of the stage, she closed her eyes and did her best to try and imagine the auditorium filled with the aristocracy and the opera's patrons all dressed in their finest evening clothes. The men would be in their black dinner jackets, with white or cream colored button up shirts. Their gold cuff links shining in the light as they checked their expensive pocket watches, all the while talking to their neighbors about the latest politics. Next to them would be ladies who were either the wives; or most likely the mistresses, of the well to do men. The women would be dressed in beautiful jewel colored dresses that were made out of the most expensive chiffon, and their necks adorned with real diamonds, pearls, or maybe even rubies. Some of the women might even have matching rings or bracelets. Women might be wearing Ostrich feathers in their hair to complete their looks, Marion laughed at this thought. If she were back home in Ireland, and she wore an Ostrich feather in her hair, she was sure that everyone from Dublin to Dun Laogharie would be laughing at her, calling her a "daft eejit" for attempting to look too much like the English.

How she missed her home though, the smell of the fresh crisp air, the rolling green hills, and the straw thatched cottages with their white washed walls. The nightly music playing that played in the local pubs with their traditional songs that were sung in the evenings, such as "Star of the County Down". Her heart ached for her homeland, but Paris was her home now and ' _I best remember that'_. Her mind continued wandering, but now back to the present. She imagined herself back stage waiting for the orchestra to finish warming up, then all would go quite as the announcer stepped out onto the stage to inform the crowd of any changes in that evening's program. As soon as he exited the stage, the curtains would rise and she would begin her performance.

~/~

Erik was sitting in his opera box contemplating on how to get through to the latest owners, Monsieur's Firmin and Andre, of **his** opera house. He had been patient with them so far, yet why were they so flipping adamant on doing everything _their_ way? They had no experience in running an establishment such as this! Those two fools would drive it straight into the ground if left to their own devices. _'The amount of francs, and other small demands that I ask of them, is not nearly enough to compensate for the headaches they've caused me over the past few years.'_ He mused to himself.

Erik was interrupted in his musings when he saw that he was no longer alone in the auditorium. There was a young woman, who looked to be in her mid twenties, with long curly red hair, and appeared to be fairly tall for her sex. She was wearing a light blue dress that seemed familiar to him, though at the moment he couldn't place where he'd seen it before. The dress fit her like a glove, hugging her thin frame, and accentuating her every curve.

The woman seemed nervous about something, given the way she clutched the curtain to her chest and kept looking about her as if someone, or something, might jump out at her at any given moment. After several long moments the woman seemed to finally have gathered up enough courage and stepped out onto the stage, that's when Erik realized where the dress was from! It was the same dress that **HIS** Christine had worn the night she had played Elissa in the production of Hannibal, where had that unworthy woman found it? Just as Erik was about to demand an answer from her, she started to sing. At first he could hardly hear her but after a few moments her voice grew louder and he was able to clearly hear her.

" _A 'níon mhín ó_ _  
_ _Sin anall na fir shúirí_ _  
_ _A mháithair mhín ó_ _  
_ _Cuir na roithléan go dtí mé_

 _Dúlamán na binne buí_ _  
_ _Dúlamán Gaelach_ _  
_ _Dúlamán na farraige_ _  
_ _'S é b'fhearr a bhí in Éirinn_ _"_

At first Erik was confused, the woman was certainly not singing in French or Italian, which were the traditional languages of the operas.

' _It isn't Scottish either, she has a brogue though and the only other people that have a brogue would be the Irish. That would make sense given the color of her hair,'_ Erik thought to himself. _'She has a nice singing voice, I'll give her that much. It doesn't compare to my fair Christine's voice, no one's ever could. Christine's voice is that of an angel, so pure and innocent! This woman's voice is full of pride and one can hear the love for her country though.'_ Erik continued to muse, to himself, as the woman continued on with her song.

 _Tá cosa dubha dubailte_ _  
_ _Ar an dúlamán gaelach_ _  
_ _Tá dhá chluais mhaol_ _  
_ _Ar an dúlamán gaelach_

 _Rachaimid go Doire_ _  
_ _Leis an dúlamán gaelach_ _  
_ _Is ceannóimid bróga daora_ _  
_ _Ar an dúlamán gaelach"_

Erik could almost see the Irish jig that, most likely, would have accompanied her song. The Irish were a proud group of people and were know for breaking into random songs and dance for any occasion. Erik remembered from the few time he had visited Ireland. They were also a people that were very big on hospitality and had always welcomed Erik to their towns, despite his mask and being English.

 _"With a little bit of voice training combined with her looks, she might be of use to me. Maybe the managers wouldn't be so difficult to deal with if she was the one doing most of the interacting with. They don't seem to be listening to Antoinette any more than they listen to me."_ Erik continued musing.

~/~

" _Bróga breaca dubha_ _  
_ _Ar an dúlamán gaelach_ _  
_ _Tá bearéad agus triús_ _  
_ _Ar an dúlamán gaelach_

 _Ó chuir mé scéala chuici_ _  
_ _Go gceannóinn cíor dí_ _  
_ _'S é'n scéal a chuir sí chugam_ _  
_ _Go raibh a ceann cíortha"_

Marion could feel herself becoming lost in her song, the music flowing through her body and she could not help herself, and she broke out into a small jig that matched the tempo to music that only she could hear. As her song started to reach its peak, Addison found her self lost in a memory from what seemed like a lifetime ago.

She was back home in Ireland in the local pup that was owned by the O' Donohoe's and the crowd was begging her to sing a song for them. Every night it was the same, with Marion serving the crowd while her friends and neighbors relaxed. After a while, someone would pull out their fiddle, and a full out ceili would break out, Patrick O'Malley would grab her hand and swing her around the floor in time to the music. Then someone, usually Morgan, her best friend since child hood, would shout "Sing us a song Marion!" and if she didn't comply he'd start calling her by her childhood nick name that she loathed, knowing it would irk her. "Mary, will you not grace us with your songs? Please Mary!" She would cringe at that nickname and more often than not, smack that eejit of a boy upside his head. Then the rest of the pub would start in, and she would have no choice but to sing, she smiled at the memory as she continued singing.

 _Góide a thug na tíre thú?_ _  
_ _Arsa an dúlamán gaelach_ _  
_ _Ag súirí le do níon,_ _  
_ _Arsa an dúlamán maorach_

 _Ó cha bhfaigheann tú mo 'níon,_ _  
_ _Arsa an dúlamán gaelach_ _  
_ _Bheul, fuadóidh mé liom í_ _  
_ _Arsa an dúlamán maorach"_

Her voice crescendo as she reached the end of her song, filling the empty room with her voice, and unbeknownst to her, having a certain phantom rethinking his initial assessment of her voice. Once the song was finished, Marion came back to the present and the cold empty theater. There would be no applause for her; there would be no loud cheers from her friends for her performances. No one would throw roses or other flowers upon the stage, as was tradition, for the Prima Donna, nor would they call out her praises or demand an encore. But that didn't bother Marion nearly as much as the fact that she would most likely never get to see her homeland again.

Marion sighed and swept her eyes over what she thought was the empty theater. She paused though when she thought she saw a shadow in one of the boxes, _"Is that someone sitting in box five? But it can't be, the only person who enters box five is…"_ Marion shook her head, it had to be a trick of the damn fairies, there was no one here except her. She turned her attention back to the empty seats and curtsied to the empty audience, determined to stop indulging her fantasies. She was twenty-five years old and it was time she grew up and put such silly thoughts out of her head. She needed focus on the present, but tonight at least she could have this small moment to herself. Tomorrow, she promised herself, she would act her age and not be a daft eejit.

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Authors Notes:

1\. Links, and all other notes, will be posted on my wordpress account, just search under the same sn I have here. FF doesn't let anyone post links to external sites and my notes tend to be way too long for here.

2\. Marion is pronounced as "m-air-EE-un". For example, Marian from Robin Hood BBC, is the English version of the name.

3\. Eejit, is my new favorite Irish word! If you haven't guess it roughly means "idiot" or "fool". The awesome series, _Gracelin O'Malley Trilogy_ , by Ann Moore, uses it quite often.

4\. Even though the story is complete, I'd still LOVE to hear from YOU dear readers!


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